And focus. and focus. and focus.

I’ve been reading Leo Babauta recently. I admire his style, but I lack focus. I need to call the zen gardeners in to rake perfect white sand over the writhing mass of monkey limbs.

Sometimes I try to practice but it’s like being a child on a merry go round. The surroundings whirl and mix like paint and every so often I catch the frozen image of my mother’s waiting face. I try to lock onto her with my eyes but just as suddenly she is gone.

I sit in the coffee shop and try to focus on the heat of the mug, the way it burns into my icy fingers. Calm. And I do like that lady’s coat. What am I gonna wear to that wedding? Can’t afford to buy a new frock.  I must earn more money! Why don’t I fulfil my potential? I do too many things. I spread myself too thin. I need to specialise. I need to focus. Oh….

The cup burns, but inside my skin is still freezing cold. I try to concentrate on that feeling, and I watch the rain. Cold and wet. It falls on that cute puppy.  I’d quite like to get a dog, but it wouldn’t be fair on the dog. I’m out too often. I do too many things. Why do I do so much? Why do I never finish? I get too distracted. I need to focus…

And the cup burns into my fingers. I watch the rain. I try to concentrate on the way it drips, the way it splashes, you know, like those photos of milk droplets. Some day, I’d like to do one of those photos. I wonder if I’d need any special equipment. Probably just lots of light and patience. How would I secure the flashgun? I wish I hadn’t lost its’ little stand. Why do I always lose things? I don’t pay attention.

By now the cup is no longer burning. The coffee is cooler than I like. I drink it anyway.